


nothing made me

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acephobia of sorts, Aromantic Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock, Friendship, Gen, Heteronormativity, No Romance, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9346541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: He could list, off the top of his head, at least sixteen symptoms of a person falling in love. He could calculate the exact odds of a couple staying together for longer than a year (incredibly low in college, slightly higher afterwards – though, considering the divorce rate, it could be better still). He could, in his sleep, deduce whether someone has had an affair (and oncehad, as a matter of fact, for which he was punched in the face and got his nose broken – this, in turn, got him to swear off alcohol).And yet, for all that knowledge, he could not describe how it wouldfeelto be in love. To desire someone that way. He had heard it described, but he had never understood it. He doubted that he ever would.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A few things: For once, I'm deviating from my usual >5k rule because this is one of those fics that are better kept short.
> 
> It took me reading an analysis on Sherlock's asexuality to understand that Irene's dinner invitation was a sex invitation.
> 
> This is a mix of ace/aro Sherlock, somewhere on the Aspergers spectrum, maybe with a little dose of SPD, depending on how you read it.

“ _Girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?”_ – John Watson about Sherlock Holmes

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“Do you ever wonder if there's anything wrong with us?” Sherlock had once asked Mycroft. His brother had not answered, which, in itself, was answer enough.

Sherlock has always known that he was _different_. Social interactions were a difficulty for him – the requirements, the expectations, the hidden norms, the unspoken rules. Somehow, everyone always knew what to say, how to act and behave, whereas for Sherlock, it had always been a mystery. The social cues that he knew of were ones he had taken painstaking care to notice, catalogue, and investigate. Almost nothing came naturally as it did for everyone else. It frustrated Sherlock to no ends.

And then there was the matter of romantic relationships. Sherlock has listened to a fair amount of popular love songs during his lifetime – having a roommate in college tended to do that, or so he was told – and was all too aware of the human interest in romance (among other things). He could list, off the top of his head, at least sixteen symptoms of a person falling in love. He could calculate the exact odds of a couple staying together for longer than a year (incredibly low in college, slightly higher afterwards – though, considering the divorce rate, it could be better still). He could, in his sleep, deduce whether someone has had an affair (and once  _had_ , as a matter of fact, for which he was punched in the face and got his nose broken – this, in turn, got him to swear off alcohol).

And yet, for all that knowledge, he could not describe how it would  _feel_ to be in love. To desire someone that way. He had heard it described, but he had never understood it. He doubted that he ever would.

Everyone acted like romance is the most important thing in the world. Fools. So close-minded, so very, _very_ simple. Nobody understood his aversion to it, not truly. Not Irene Adler, with her perpetual invitations to dinner she didn't really want to have but persisted in inviting him to ( _“The Virgin”_ ); not Lestrade, who Sherlock had been hoping would be more focused on his work than his so-called love life (not that there was anything to focus on, really, with his wife very obviously having an affair yet Lestrade being clearly oblivious to the fact, which added up to the conclusion that their relationship has been drifting apart for months now and hasn't really been physical for even longer); not even Mycroft, who, for all his preaching about love being a disadvantage and how he did not understand human emotions and attachments, was still very much a slave to base physical needs. ( _“Sex doesn’t alarm me.” “How would you know?”_ )

And Sherlock would have been fine with it, really, except for how everyone seemed to assume that since he was romantically uninvolved with another, he was miserable, when, in reality, the opposite was true.

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Sherlock did not drink. He did not like the feeling of losing control over his own body, of being less than a hundred percent in control of his actions. It terrified Sherlock, more than anything else. His mind, his control over himself, was the single thing he treasured the most, and to have that ripped away by a few molecules of distilled ethanol was unacceptable.

There was also the fact that, the one and only time his roommate had dragged him to a frat party (Sherlock told himself that it was because he genuinely wanted to understand human behaviour), he was perpetually being propositioned by various people (all of whom he rejected, of course, finding their propositions meaningless), and then all-but coerced into participating in a drinking game.

When it was his turn, he chose truth. He had nothing to hide.

“How many have you slept with, eh, Sher?” his roommate slurred drunkenly.

“None,” Sherlock answered readily, expecting the game to move on now that he had provided them with the answer they sought.

Instead, they stared at him as though he had grown horns. Sherlock surreptitiously checked his head for any additional body parts. After ascertaining himself of the fact that he did not, indeed, grow horns, he turned to his roommate with a quizzical look. “What is it, James?”

James snorted. “Are you a virgin, Sherlock? Why, we must fix that!” he grinned.

Sherlock has had enough. “No, you will not,” he stood up. He addressed his roommate. “James, I am leaving. See you later.”

As he left, he heard someone ask, “What got into him? I mean, it was just a bit of sex. It's  _fun_ .”

Sherlock imagined that James shrugged in response, as if a 'what can you do' gesture, but he did not stick around to find out. He has had about enough of this 'social' interaction. Screw norms.

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_Let's have dinner._

Sherlock was often told that he was oblivious to human interactions and their interests; that he was an insensitive bastard. That may be so – he didn't bother denying it – but even his mind eventually picked up on Irene Adler's intentions. Since then he was painfully sensitive about what he said and wrote to her, not wanting there to be any doubt as to his wishes.

_Why would I eat dinner if I wasn't hungry?_

He stalled for time. The easiest way to do that was to pretend that he did not understand what she was talking about, but Irene figured him out. (She always did.) She called him out on his bluff, always smiling, always moving towards him, always initiating body contact.

_ If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me? _

In contrast, Sherlock detested any sort of contact. He was not interested in flirting, in relationships, in having 'dinner' with Irene Adler – just as he was uninterested in Molly Hooper's lipstick, in Jim's underwear, or in John's inability to stop flirting with him.

It became something like a game: Irene would try to build up a mood, while Sherlock would break it. Sherlock did not like it, and he tried not to play along, but were he not to play along, the only other alternative was to agree to Miss Adler's proposal, and that would have meant playing right into her trap, and he simply could not have that. Sherlock's reaction to being flirted with had always been to freeze up or become awkward, try to build a wall between himself and Miss Adler.

He never felt any sort of romantic attraction to Irene Adler, though everyone else – Adler included –- certainly seemed convinced that he did. John even tried to use it against him.

_As I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people–_

– _would complete you as a human being,_ John interrupted, clearly _not listening._

Sherlock frowned at that.  _That doesn’t even mean anything._

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It came to the point where even his subconscious began to doubt itself.

Damn it, _Holmes, you are flesh and blood, you have feelings, you have... You must have..._ impulses _. As your friend, as someone who worries about you... What made you like this?_

And Sherlock could not help but smirk, because, while he was used to Watson's useless questions, this one was unusually inane, even for his friend.  _Oh, Watson... Nothing made me._ I _made me,_ he replied, because really, what else was there to say?

He had always been like that, and he would remain so.

_Kaiidth._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen The Final Problem yet, but I'm about to. Excited but also apprehensive because Moffat should be a warning in himself.


End file.
